A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 3

A Bed for the Wretched – Chapter 3

“A Hungarian cut off my leg, assisted by a Greek. They were often among us. They visited us, comforted us, tapped us on the shoulder, smiled at us gently and scolded us for not having shaven. They spoke Spanish amongst themselves. The Greek was an odd looking man, usually quiet but knew how to play the guitar! The Hungarian sang in Spanish... When I became mobile again, through the use of crutches, the Greek man often approached me, sat beside me and told me things about Spain. There too he was a physician and surgeon. He worked for the International Brigades. He also told me things about Paris. When Ferents, the Hungarian, joined us, Nikos, the Greek man, translated for me. The two spoke in Spanish. They had studied together in Paris and had many nice things to say about the city. Later they ran into each other in Spain, in a military hospital. Nikos and Ferents have been to many places around the world. Ferents found himself in Mexico and Nikos in Algeria and then in Cairo. After that, during the summer of 1940, Nikos finally returned home to Athens. Nikos’s father, a soap maker, had a soap factory and was financially well off and sent his son to Paris to study to become a doctor. But when Nikos’s father found out that after graduation he had gone to Spain, he disowned him and made it known through a newspaper. He called him awful names and accused him of voluntarily abandoning Greece at a critical time when he was needed and when Greece was being invaded by Italy. He accused Nikos of hating Fascism and of fighting like an ordinary soldier for the communists. But Nikos never carried a rifle and all this was a misunderstanding. But by then he was a marked man and wanted by the Spaniards, Italians, Germans and the English. He was also hated by the Greek communists and, after Varkiza, he was sent to jail. ‘I did not agree with the Varkiza Agreement’ he told me. ‘So I resigned my membership from the Party. This landed me in jail. But then when I found out they had killed Velouhiotis, I called the Camp Commander and signed a statement by which I was released from prison. But when I tried to reconnect with the Party, my former comrades, who were in agreement with the Varkiza agreement, would not accept me. The tormentors knew what they were doing which became very clear to me. If one does not destroy you the other one will. The Civil War started and I was unable to sit calmly and work in a private clinic in Athens. I found out what they were doing to wounded and captured partisans. I approached a friend and asked him to take me to the mountains, to the Partisans. He refused and said he did not trust me. Then I called Partisan Command and asked them to send me to the front. But instead of sending me to the front, I was sent to a military hospital in Kozheni. It was a makeshift hospital consisting of several barracks. My specialty, as you know, was cutting off legs and arms. As was usually said, my job was also to remove the pieces of metal from the bodies and sew up the wounds. In Kozheni however there were many wounded. I constantly amputated arms and legs and often thought of Spain and Ferents. One day they sent a jeep which took me to Gorusha. There were many wounded there. During the night the Partisans attacked Lazareto and many became wounded. That is why they sent me here.’ Nikos paused and then said something in Spanish to Ferents and they both began to laugh. I did not get a chance to ask why they were laughing. A nurse ran towards us and asked them to go with her. I returned to my hospital room. Two strangers were lying in the beds away from mine; they were wounded, they had fresh wounds. Next to my bed lay someone who was completely wrapped in bandages. Soon after I arrived, Nikos and Ferents entered the room, looked over the newcomers and ordered the wrapped one to be taken somewhere else. Sometime after midnight that person was brought back. ‘Numo,’ piped up Nikos, ‘you now have company,’ and pointed to the wheelchair.

Two nurses raised the person wrapped in bandages out of the wheelchair and lay them on the bed. I could not sleep all night. All night I listened to the breathing and moaning and from the moaning I guessed that this person had to be a woman. I did not see her face and I did not know her name. She died before sunrise. Later that day Nikos told me she had no face or legs. Pando, you see and hear many things in the military hospitals. A lot of awful things! Usually one reads about these things in the newspapers, in the latest news about how many wounded and how many dead they took away from the battlefields. But sometimes it’s best not to read the news and not to know these things… I dragged myself from room to room and visited the wounded. Sometimes I gave them water, stood next to their beds and listened to their stories. I learned many things this way. When a person finds themselves in difficulty, they need an outlet to dispense their misery. One day they brought many wounded. Among them was one who constantly shouted: ‘Ta podia mou! Ta podia mou!’ (My legs! My legs!) They brought him into my room. All night he moaned and cried. He swore and cursed. They took him away before dawn and returned him around noon. He stunk of chloroform. He was quiet and could hardly breathe. ‘What’s with him?’ I asked one of the nurses. ‘Under the hips...’ she gestured while pointing at her own thighs. When he regained consciousness, his eyes opened and he stared at the ceiling. He did not want to talk with anyone. He lay there silent for days. Somehow he accepted being crippled without much fuss. He didn’t

complain. He seemed to be grateful for being alive. Later Harilaos, that was his name, opened both his mouth and heart. ‘I was a (Greek government) soldier in the 225 Infantry Battalion. During the first days of the Gramos offensive we failed to penetrate the DAG defense line. They returned us back to the starting position, reinforced the lines and the next day, at dawn, after the artillery ended its bombardment, they sent us on the attack again. We fought face to face and eventually took the first line, but got trapped in a minefield. We spent an entire week there until we arrived at the foot of Sveti Ilia. We tried several times to take the hill but without success. Then they sent military police officers from Kozheni, from the Divisional Headquarters, to extract us. Only eighteen of us returned from our mission. They loaded us on trucks and took us directly to Kozheni. We were briefly visited by a Military prosecutor who told us that we did not show enough courage, patriotism and national virtue against the Slavo-Communists! So, in the evening he was going to send us to the national rehabilitation centre. This is how we ended up in Makronisos. It is easy to say we arrived. But how did we arrive? I do not know if anyone can truly describe Makronisos. When I say Makronisos I don’t mean the long and dry island, I mean the hot, waterless island where there is not even a single shadow. Apart from the few low thorny plants and a couple of blades of grass existing between the white stones cracked by the sun and occasionally washed by the rain, there is nothing that would provide a little green. The soil was reddish, dusty and dry like ash. When the wind blew it raises clouds of red dust, turning it over and over on the surface of the rocky island with nowhere to put it. Rain was rare and the heat was torturous every day and there was nowhere to hide. This is where both nature and man are sentenced to hell. The sun in Makronisos rises and sets in the sea. The only companion it has is the martyr-man, the enslaved-man... I was not among the first to arrive. Every day there were new arrivals. They said that there were about twenty-five thousand (Greek government) soldiers dressed in English uniforms there. That’s what those in Athens believed. Twenty-five thousand young men, all nationally ill-mannered, all cowards, all without patriotism and without national honour, that’s why we were sent there, to be “rehabilitated”… But in reality the only thing about these young men being Greek were our names and surnames. Greeks, you can be sure, were those who tortured us... You should go to Makronisos so that you can truly understand what I am talking about, so that you can understand that people are only human and can take only so much before their instincts take over. (Some prisoners came to this island from other dry Aegean islands and said that Makronisos was hell on earth). One afternoon they brought about fifty young men to the “rehabilitation” squad on the dusty lawn in front of A2 command. As their names and surnames were called out, one by one, they yelled “here” and dropped their backpacks and joined the back of the line. We, the older ones living in this jungle, stayed on the sidelines. It was raining hard. We looked at each other and wondered: “How many of these young men will hold out and how many will crack?” The first question thrown at them was: “Will you sign a statement of repentance?” The people who signed the piece of paper, feeling like they were born again, came back, picked up their backpacks and headed for the lower camp enclosed by wire fence. Those that refused were set aside. The first thing that awaited them was the vice. They left them in front of the vice, throughout the day, to contemplate the kind of torture they were going to experience… The torturing was conducted during the night, in the dark. Those tortured, the next day were taken outside to spend the day under the hot sun. During the day they also made us read the slogans whitewashed with limestone paint on the stone cliffs of the camp or those made with arranged white stones carried on the backs of the prisoners.

Before they were arranged into slogans, these stones were carried back and forth from the sea to the highest cliffs on the island on the backs of the prisoners. Some of the slogans read: “Long live King Paul!”, “We want to carry guns!”, “Long live the Greek race!”, and “Don’t forget you were born Greek!” The tents were also arranged so that, when viewed from high above, they spelled out similar slogans. They forced us to read the slogans out loud in unison with a single voice for hours, but before that they had us break stones into fine, sharp, pointed pieces and made us kneel on them before we were forced to sing: “Apo kate gonia sou, Ellada, (From your every corner, Greece) mazemeni s’avto to nisi, (collected on this island) sto megalo sholio sou patrida (in your great school, fatherland) Pou to len AETO-ESAN... (Which they call AETO-ESAN...) Molismeni os tora i psihi mas (Our soul, until now infected) theli vaptizma ksana ethniko. Ne ethniko! (needs a Greek baptizing again. Yes, Greek) fovo pia then to exi i fili mas (our race will no longer fear) ap’ ton atimo koumounismo! ... (terrible communism!)” Everyone who passed through Makronisos received this treatment. Rehabilitation began immediately and, with the exception of those who immediately signed the statement of remorse, there was no pity shown to anyone. The only relief in Makronisos was death. You waited for death like the grace of God, but it refused to come. God had forgotten this place and these people. On that precious, dry island, on which the rocks were ruthlessly beaten by the waves of the sea, eaten by the southern and northern winds, you could find no beauty, no piece of soil on which you could breathe in peace, no green grass for your eyes to see and rejoice... Throughout its length and its width, in all its valleys and hills there were no trees, no flowers, not even a patch of grass. Even the seagulls flying over it, avoided it. Its surface was barren, dry and unproductive; nourished only by the blood, sweat and tears of the modern Greek slaves. The cross that saved Greece was the weeping and cursing of the slave. After bringing the stones downhill to the sea to wet them, we carried them back up to the top of the hill on our backs. We did this again and again, walking barefoot on a path sown with crushed pebbles and sharp stones. The hill was long and bare with many dips and looked like a long belt. The dips were the valleys of death. This was where they tormented us until we lost consciousness. For us, as long as we stayed erect and maintained our composure they tormented us, but when we fell they would not let us die. Death for us would have been our saviour but they did not want us to be saved. There was only one law that governed Makronisos: “Those who refused to “break” had to be “lamed” for life... After each torture, those still living were treated to make sure they remained alive so that they could again be tortured… My brother, they pushed you to dig your own grave, put you in it and they would slowly bury you alive, leaving only your head and right arm out. Then they would ask you: “Are you going to sign?” Every time they asked me I said, “NO!” Then they burned my hand. “I am left handed!” I yelled out. “I can only write with my left hand.” They dug me out down to my waist, raised my left arm, lowered my right arm and buried me back to my neck with my left arm above the ground. “Here is the paper and a pen,” one of them said. “Now sign!” The soil was pressing hard on my chest. It was smothering me. I could not breathe. “Sign you bastard!” I heard another one scream and then began to pound me on my head. I suddenly began to feel uneasy and was gripped by panic. I began to scream loudly. I could not hold out... I woke up in the camp hospital, chained to a bed with barbed wire. Beside me lay a man who looked like he had been drowned. “They tied me with a thick rope,” he said. “Then they stuck my face in the salty seawater, just touching it so that every wave could hit me from behind and bury me under water.

They left me there for hours, all day... After that they laid me on a rock and asked me to sign. I shouted “No!” and the one that was leaning over me spat in my face. They dropped me back in the water. I was unable to get a good breath. The waves were smashing my head on the rocks so I decided to drown. But they would not allow me to stay under water for too long. They kept pulling me up. I struggled to stay in but they pulled me out and began to beat me with strands of barbed wire. I was in pain, strong pain. I yelled for them to stop but I did not beg them. I fell down and one of them stepped on my chest and began to press on my heart with his boot. That’s when I begged him to kill me… “In Makronisos we don’t kill,” said the one who was stepping on my chest. “In Makronisos we do not kill!” he repeated. “No heroes will come out of here. Only crippled, crazed, broken, worms, or just jerks like me, like us,” pointing to himself and to the other torturers… This was my fourth day since they brought me here,” concluded the man and he stopped talking. A long silence followed. He then took a long and hard breath and asked: “Can you get up?” I nodded my head indicating that I could get up. “Please stand up,” he said, “and look to see if the flag is on the flagpole…” I did not understand what the man wanted me to do. He must have realized that so then he said: “Get up and see if he is still standing there...” I got up. I felt uneasy as I made my way to the window. I looked outside. “Do you see him?” he asked. “Do you see him?” “Who?!” I asked inquisitively. “The man standing and leaning on the flagpole... Do you see him?” he kept asking. “Yes, I see him,” I said. “What is he doing?” he asked. “Standing with his hands up…” I replied. “Standing there... Bravo... He was standing there before they brought me here... Bravo...” he said. “Is the sun shining?” asked another man lying in the corner. “Don’t talk to him!” the first man said with a raised tone of voice. “He signed the paper...” “Yes, I signed!” yelled the man in the corner. I turned my head and what did I see; a “white mummy” lying in bed. It moved slightly and had the voice of a man. “I signed all right!” the man lying in the corner yelled out. “I signed, I signed, I signed!” he kept yelling. “When they took me out of the grave they sprinkled me with oil and set me on fire. I was burning like a torch... Then when I woke up here, in this bed, and when I opened my eyes I found the sheet with my signature. Full name and surname... Here, on this bed, I, pulled from the grave and turned into a torch... signed... But you tell me,” asked the wrapped man, “tell me who ordered the surrender of our weapons to the English? Who?! My leadership! Who is the traitor then?! Who?! I don’t want to pick up another gun from either side. I carried a gun for four years and often used it to defend my country against strangers. Now both sides call me a traitor. The one side calls me traitor because I fought against the English in December in Athens. The other side calls me traitor because I did not want to surrender my weapons. But when the Party ordered, I did surrender them. And then they both said to me: “Kalo Pethi”! Palikari!” (Good boy! Hero!) Then, when they started to fill the forests and mountains with fighters, they both rushed to purchase my soul. I spat at the prospect because my soul was where the eagles fly, but the “hititi” and the “mavroskufiti” (Nationalist fascist organizations, collaborators and the English) took grasp of me... I Signed... I Signed all right... and crapped on both of their faces… A tall, pale, gray-haired man entered the room. His hands were wrapped in bandages and he kept them extended in front of him. He looked at me and asked: “Are you new? Have you signed?” “No!” I said. “And don’t,” he said. “It is not worth it. I was ordered by the Party in 1936 to sign and ever since the same Party has accused me of being a traitor. I fought in the ranks of ELAS but my friends never had confidence in me.

But, behold, I am alive, at least for now. I fought against the Italians, Germans and Bulgarians, and finally against the English and the Hititi and mavroskufiti... We fought against the English in Athens, our allies, do you understand? Thousands of us fought against strangers. That is why there are so many of us here. Now they are asking me to sign again, to repent because they think I don’t like the English and the Americans, and because they think I like the Russians, Bulgarians and Macedonians and because they think I want to give them Macedonia. I like the Greeks and everyone who likes the Greeks... Yes, I also like the Macedonians because they fought against strangers in the same trenches as us... But because the worm of a Greater Greece is still eating our brains, we are guilty of not thinking straight and we are unable to see the world with open eyes. We always want to be decorated with wreaths of glory like the ancient Greeks we learned about...” “It’s true,” yelled the man that was drowned. “Did our patriots not sing, let me see how it went, wait… On the way to take Moscow, we will stop in Sofia to have a drink of coffee… something like that, right? Some were even dreaming about taking India. The dust, they used to say, that rested on the famous route followed by Alexander the Great, needed to be disturbed...” “They sought contempt,” said the tall man. “They sought to scorn us and glue it to our foreheads... That’s what it means to sign...” “And you think suicide,” yelled the man wrapped in dressings, “for us is more dignified?” “Is this dignity? What is so dignified about this? Does anyone here know what dignity is? Is it dignity to be alive and serve simply as a living weapon, a tool and have no personal opinion? What is dignity? To die on this dry island, to die on the rocks of the mountains, to die like slaughtered sheep in our own homes and fields and to be hung on poles in front of café’s and bars? And what is the world, that big slut, doing about this? Nothing!!! How can anyone have a peaceful conscience after seeing all this? And why then do I ask about dignity? I, you, he who drowned in the bag, the young women and young men killed in the mountains, those exiled, those chased out of their homes, those who rot in prisons and camps, maybe, perhaps, we are dignity for the world?” said the tall man. “Well, maybe…” echoed the wrapped man, “dignity is certainly not biting your own veins with your teeth, right?” “Yes!” said the newcomer. “They burned my body with lit cigarettes and when they didn’t get what they wanted from me they burned me with a hot iron. It was very painful but I did not want to cry from pain. I still had the strength to tear my own veins out in my hands with my teeth and when I saw the blood gush out, I figured finally my troubles would be over. But I was not so lucky, they didn’t let me die. After a day or two they would untie my bandages and I would again find myself in the valley of death...” “Where did they take you?” asked the man that was drowned. “They took me to see the cats. You know there are several cages with cats nearby, right? They are well fed and they are strong. The cats too are participants in the national rehabilitation program... As I watched them I thought to myself: with which one of you will they put me in a bag and together with me, hands tied behind by back, lower us into the sea from the high cliff? Which one of you will tear my face out with your claws trying to get out? Will you just tear my face out or will you cut my throat, tear my eyes out or tear a hole in my chest fighting for your life? Which one of you? Go, see the cats. You may make a friend and it will be easier on you in the bag.” We heard marching footsteps and singing outside: Makronisi semno, skapaneon angali (Modest Makronisos, embracing the pioneers) mia patrida iroon me doxa megali, (you are the homeland of heroes with great glory) mia patrida megali, trani k’ohi sklavon (a great homeland, but not of the slaves) i fovera k’o tafos ton varvaron Slavon...

(and fear and a grave of the Slav barbarians...) On the other side, on the side of the tents, was where those who signed the statement of repentance were located, they were grouped in a battalion that was soon to leave for the front. They were singing: To proto tagma Makronisou (The first Makronisos battalion) Mise tora to Slavismo… (Now hates Slavism...) The mummy in the corner rustled a bit and asked: “Is the sun shining?” “No,” I said. “It has drowned in the sea...”

Darkness slowly poured into the room. There were penetrating shrills and screaming outside: “Voithia! Me skotonoun!” (Help! They are killing me!) The nights in Makronisos were very dark. They were often illuminated by glowing, flying bullets released from bursts of machine gun fire. Bullets fly in every direction. They suddenly stop as if to reload the guns and start up again. This was another way of rehabilitating us. They say they were doing this to turn our nerves to steel and prepare us for battle. But while this went on many of the less stable among us screamed, yelled and went nuts. And there, down there in the valley, the torture began. Can you hear the screaming? “Voithia! Me skotonoun!” (Help! They are killing me!) Torturers wearing dog masks would, at any time, unexpectedly crash into the tents and begin to beat everyone in sight with punches and push them outside where “pustides” (gays), also wearing dog masks, would wait for them, grab them and begin their sadistic ritual savagery... After that there would be silence. A brief but blessed silence, the crying and screaming momentarily would stop, the ugliness and horror of death would be momentarily removed from sight, a star might light up the sky, one might even barely manage to capture the quiet sound of a wave splashing on the seashore. And even then one could not stop thinking about their troubles, about their suffering, even though they were now barely a ruined shadow of their former selves. And one might wonder why did this ugliness called Greece ever give them birth? “Is the sun shining,” asked the man wrapped in bandages, “look outside and please tell me if the sun is shining!” he insisted. “It is shining!” I said. The man that was drowned then pointed towards the window with his eyes and said, “Go to the window and see if he is still standing there.” “Yes, yes, the sun is shining and the person is standing there,” I said after I looked out the window. It seemed to me that all those from the valley of death, from the attacked tents, from the sloping view glancing toward the pillar, from the sharp rock laced path carrying large rocks barefoot up and down the hill and beaten with barbed wire, those who suffered rifle butt blows, belt whipping and exhaustion, had the same question for me about the man standing by the flagpole. “Yes, he is still standing there with his arms over his head!” was my answer. “Except now his forearms seem to be drooping down like they were ready to fall off at the elbows. There, I see the sergeant is running towards him. He tried to raise them but he couldn’t seem to. The sergeant slapped the man on the face... The man stood there... he then stood up straight... His feet were swollen, they looked like bloated stomachs. His shoes were torn and his feet were sticking out... There was a swarm of flies buzzing around his face, his belly and around his hands and swollen feet...” “What is he doing now? Can you see?” asked the man that was drowned. “It looks like he is looking up at the sky,” I said. “He must be thinking about its vastness and how it meets the sea in the distance. He also looks like he is moving his lips…” “He is singing, he is singing… Sing! Sing!” shouted the man with the bandaged hands. “He is singing, I am sure of it but we can’t hear his song...” he said. That afternoon the man who stood beside the flagpole for twelve days died standing. What was his name? We all called him “the standing man”. He died standing. He died standing... The tormentors quickly removed him because they hated hearing all the applause. All of us standing by the windows in the hospital kept clapping. Then, suddenly two tormentors entered our room with clubs in their hands and began to beat us. I was knocked out with the first blow to my head. I felt like I was caught in a ring from which there was no escape. A loud yell brought me to. I opened my eyes and that’s when a saw a boot in front of my face. I don’t know when they put me on a stretcher. I moved my arm and then my leg.

I figured I was still alive. Blood was flowing out of my ear and dripping on the stone floor. As each drop fell on the other drops, the blood began to pool and spread, the pool kept growing and coagulating. Beaten, I began to whisper “Anakrisi triti vathmou” (“Interrogation of the third degree”). This was a poem written by a Greek poet and Makronisos prisoner named Andreas Leondaris: I renounced the glory in my own mind. I renounced the sorrow that burns in my heart. Just don’t squeeze my head with an iron wreath, don’t put my temple in a vice. I give up! I give up! Just let me live! I curse my dark days and my white nights, They are not worth a heap of rags. Just don’t put a silk tie around my neck.

I give up! I give up! Just let me live! And on the faithful look of my old comrades I spit. And to you I reveal all my secrets! Just untie my hands and feet. I give up! I give up! Just let me live!

I renounce my father, Who brought me into this exile and bitterness! Just don’t break my legs and don’t burn my loins with lit cigarettes. I give up! I give up! Just let me live!

I renounce the silent look of my mother, With disgust I vomit her holy milk. Just extinguish the torch and don’t throw any water on me. I give up! I give up! Just let me live!

I renounce my love for my little one, My happy little angel lying there in the cradle! Just don’t make my baby cry and make me its burden. I give up! I give up! Just let me live!

And if something still remains to be done to make things right, I wholeheartedly, sacredly and gloriously renounce it voluntarily! Just don’t stick splinters under my fingernails, and pour salt in my wounds. I give up! I give up! Just let me live! Ah! How great! Now I will live! And now take me, if I am worthy of you, to where you led me: a wounded body, in dreadful pain, unworthy even of death... I whispered the poem with contempt, because contempt helped me survive and live. But, for how long? In Makronisos they don’t let you die. Death is desirable because it is freedom but death is prohibited there. Human desires are worthless there because all the violence carried out throughout Greece is concentrated there. In this world it is forbidden for a person to have dreams and desires like other people have. There it is forbidden to believe in more than one god... One night they took us to the valley at the women’s camp. They made us stand in line single file and watch them beat the women. At dawn they released the wolf-hounds. The dogs kept barking as the women screamed and cried. They fired a red rocket into the air and the dogs went back to their cages. At sunrise they gathered the women. … And then and there I decided... In the morning I reported to the Sergeant and said: “Sir, take me to the A2 Commander”. “Why?” asked the Sergeant while staring at me intensely. I would not tell him why as I stubbornly insisted. He took me there. I stood still until I was invited to see a military officer. I said: “Major, sir, allow me to sign… I repent…” The Major silently handed me a pen and paper and said: “Please go ahead, my boy, welcome back to the embrace of your fatherland.” I signed, stood up and stood still, stiff like a soldier at attention. The Major looked at the paper and after reading my name, shouted out with a commanding voice: “Soldier Harilae, return to your line and faithfully serve the fatherland!” I stood there. “Harilae, soldier, now go back to your line!” he again said. “Major Sir! Please allow me to join the battalion that is preparing for the front!” I demanded in a loud military style tone of voice. “Bravo! Bravo!” shouted the Major. “You finally realized your mistake... Bravo! Your country has forgiven you, my boy! Now get back to your line!” he said and then called the guard. The guard appeared at the door and the Major ordered him to take me to the battalion. After two months of exercises in Makronisos the battalion was sent to Gramos. This was my way out of hell... I got in through a narrow door leading to torture and then I left through the same narrow door… Behind this door I left tens and hundreds of prisoners like myself. But, unlike me, they did not want to look at the narrow door through which I left. They all, in their tormented and suffering eyes, looked at my exit with contempt. There was contempt all right and determination in my eyes. During our first assault, I, a machine gunner belonging to the second decade of the fourth line, as soon as I advanced about twenty metres ahead of my squad, turned around, looked at the boys in English helmets and opened fire on them… It was Makronisos that I was shooting at... I unloaded the empty cartridges and loaded a full one and then began to fire again... The squad ducked. The other side charged. I stood upright and when the other side came closer I tossed my machine gun. But even before the gun was out of my hands an automatic burst cut my legs off. As I was falling down I saw the Sergeant, the same sergeant who took me to the Major to sign the paper. He was kneeling on one knee while shooting at me... No, it was not the Sergeant who shot me... It was Makronisos...